Essay
Belief
Creed
Football
Sport
6 min read

Argentina’s adoration of Lionel Messi

The icon of the beautiful game holds a nation's gaze, giving insights into redemption.

Matthias is a priest-theologian, and Centre Lead for St Mellitus College, Chelmsford

A child on the shoulders of a parent wears a light blue and white stripped football top, waves the Argentinian flag
Pedro Chosco on Unsplash.

“Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.” 

The words recited by the priest during the Eucharist as the chalice and host are lifted, inviting participants to fix their gaze on Christ, encapsulate the profound truth that what we gaze upon has inordinate power to shape us. It is a truth echoed not only in spiritual practices but also in our everyday experiences. In a world flooded with visual distractions, an age dominated by screens, this act of beholding is a counter-cultural reminder of the reality that our gaze determines our desires and, ultimately, the people we become.  

Of course, our gaze is not limited to religion or technology; it also relates to culture, and our idols in music and sport deeply influence us for better or worse.  

This truth became vividly real to me during our family travels through South America last summer. Our synaesthesically-rich itinerary of truly memorable encounters with the vast natural and cultural heritage sites of the continent coincided with Lionel Messi’s triumph in the Copa América. As a family we enjoyed witnessing the national celebrations of the football giant taking his foremost place in the pantheon of La Albiceleste – the Argentinian national team. As part of our backpacking through Argentina, we visited Rosario, the birthplace of the great man. 

For my six-year-old son, the trip was a chance to step into the world of his hero. Visiting the modest house where Messi grew up, his kindergarten, the playground where he would have played, and the club he represented before moving to Barcelona and global fame was fascinating. But far beyond all these famous sites was the immediate visual bombardment of graffitied murals across the city’s walls celebrating his legacy, life and achievements. They highlighted how deeply intertwined Messi’s story is with the local and national consciousness. Navigating our way through these vibrant backstreets and billboards, our own human senses blurring in the Argentine cultural imaginary, we reflected on how we were also manoeuvring our way through a modern-day pilgrimage. 

For the figure of Lionel Messi commands etheric resonances far beyond the immediate significance of his footballing career. His story is about more than sporting success, and as a cultural icon in Argentina he has now surpassed Diego Maradona. Messi’s journey conjures a strikingly messianic arc, encapsulating themes of death and resurrection. From his emergence out of humble beginnings before being flung into international stardom, his resignation from the national team amid public outrage to his triumphant and redemptive return, leading Argentina to World Cup glory. 

Along our travels, we were surrounded by beauty; in creation, culture, and human creativity. This beauty and artistry also shines forth in Messi and his craft. Watching someone of such skill and elegance on the pitch, and such apparent humility away from the cameras, embodies the joy of the beautiful game. Messi’s place within the Argentine cultural imagination, as a social actor producing and reproducing a shared sense of meaning that verges on the spiritual, is also cemented in the country’s cultural delights. These narratives of new beginnings and flourishing are evident not only the vibrant street art, but also in the exquisite steaks and fine Malbec wine consumed in the fashionable Buenos Aires restaurants frequented by footballers and other celebrities.  And, in the ubiquitous ‘Number 10’ football strips we saw worn by every second visitor at the breathtaking Iguazú Falls. This powerful symbiosis between Messi and the collective idea of ‘Argentina’ means that his triumph in 2022 became a communal act of redemption for a nation whose imagined identity is intricately tied to the sport, the culmination of a wider set of imagined bonds fostering a collective sense of belonging, meaning, and beauty. 

Beauty and the Church 

This appreciation for beauty resonates deeply with the Christian tradition. Beauty matters – not only in life but also in the Church, in worship, and in encounters with the divine. Just as Messi’s artistry captivates, so too should the Church inspire awe and wonder. The synaesthetic experience of Christian worship, the harmony of liturgy and sacred music, provides glimpses of the divine and transcendent beauty and is designed to draw the gaze upward, to behold Christ and his beauty. In the early Church, when Christians emerged from the underground catacombs and built churches and cathedrals, pagans marvelled at the beauty of the liturgies occuring inside. The order, reverence, and otherworldly radiance of Christian worship captivated those who encountered it. 

The importance of beauty in worship echoes the Transfiguration, where Christ’s divine glory was revealed and transfixed his disciples. On Mount Tabor, Christ unveiled the divine radiance that transforms all who behold him, all who fix their eyes on him. The beauty of God transforms us when our minds are oriented toward God. This is not merely aesthetic – it is theological: our entire being is beautified. St. Maximus the Confessor argued that when our mind is oriented toward God, it is beautified by him, and as this beauty flows outward it also shapes and transforms our being. Conversely, when we turn our attention away from God, we lose this radiance and harmony, becoming shapeless and disordered. 

Beauty, then, is not just a peripheral concern; it is integral to worship and formation, to our becoming fully human and being fully transformed into the image of God. The Church should be a place where we encounter the beauty of Christ, where the liturgy itself becomes an icon that draws our ears and eyes, minds, hearts, and bodies towards God. 

The Redeemer gazing back

In our culture, we are drawn to watch figures like Lionel Messi, whose brilliance and beautiful artistry inspire devotion and cement collective cultural and even spiritual meanings. Yet, while football and an individual’s life story might inspire and unify, as we are reminded by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, they nevertheless remain penultimate. These worldly things, be they football, fame, or even national unity, cannot satisfy our deepest longings and thirst for ultimate meaning, and will ultimately fade away. In the wider spiritual imagination, these moments of beauty do however encapsulate a deeper, lasting reality, and so may point beyond themselves, toward the source of all beauty – God Himself. And this is where theology and the gaze converge, bringing us back to where we started: that what we choose to look upon shapes us profoundly. As we navigate a world filled with distractions and idols, it is a reminder that what we choose to behold not only reflects our values but also shapes the people we are becoming. The question is then, where – or rather at whom – are we directing our gaze? 

Our South American travels culminated in Rio de Janeiro, at the feet of the iconic statue of Cristo Redentor. Standing atop a mountain, Christ himself gazes over the metropolis, the shimmering beaches, the favelas, and the Maracanã Football Stadium. With outstretched arms, the statue is an enduring symbol of Christ’s immanence. Not a distant, transcendent God removed from our world, but the present Christ.  

In considering what shapes us – be it football legends, the wonders of creation, or the allure of our screens – it becomes evident that only one gaze has the power to redeem. The story of Lionel Messi may inspire us, but the story of Jesus Christ redeems us. Only in Christ do we find a beauty that is both immanent and eternal, calling us to fix our eyes on him and be transfigured by his glory. For we can only behold him at all because he was beholding us first. 

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Article
Creed
Easter
Resurrection
4 min read

Easter is almost too big for our human minds to grapple with

How can we 'go figure' the seemingly incomprehensible?

George is a visiting fellow at the London School of Economics and an Anglican priest.

A star constellation resembles a cross.
Adrian Mag on Unsplash.

Forgive me for getting a bit ahead of myself, but I’d like to say something of the Resurrection. We’ve barely even started the Triduum and the Jesuit saying rings in my ears: “If we don’t die with him on Good Friday, we can’t rise with him on Easter morning.” 

But part of the problem this epigram presents is that it’s not so much Good Friday that we skip over, but Easter morning. In our determination to focus on the Passion of the Christ, Easter can perhaps be a joyful sermon, a jolly good lunch, an exclamation that “He is risen!” and we move on. 

So when it comes to miracles, too often it’s the Big One from which we avert our attention. And we can even skip the entire thing. I encountered two of my erstwhile Church primary-school children on a Holy Week dog walk. “Father George!” they cried. I’m afraid I spoke to them and their parents about clues for an Easter-egg hunt. 

Like the size of the universe, Easter is almost too big for our human minds to grapple with. So we confine ourselves to reciting facts and beliefs. Our universe is 13 billion light years wide and came from literally nothing. Jesus Christ was raised from the dead and appeared to his disciples. 

There is a real fear of the Resurrection among the faithful. Not in the way that scripture speaks of the fear of God, but a much more basic fear of the schoolchild that we’re not getting it right. It’s as if we’re meant to believe but can’t, with a dash of the awful dread that those who say that - rather like Donald Trump - it’s not to be taken literally but seriously might just be right. 

It’s the fear of the yawning abyss between literal truth (in Greek, logos) and metaphorical or allegorical truth (mythos). And it’s as if we’re being forced to make a choice that, in conscience, we can’t. As such, it becomes what St Paul might call a stumbling block, something that gets in the way rather than illuminates. And it’s one we quietly ignore. 

I think I want to say that we need to be liberated from the worry that there’s a right way to interpret it, or that there’s a binary choice to be made between literal and metaphorical truth. In the events of Easter morning, we’re being offered a both/and response rather than an either/or choice. 

In this model, historicity is useful but insufficient. We know as a historical fact that Jesus of Nazareth was crucified by the Roman authorities and we can very reasonably assume, in historical terms, that one of his disciples, a woman from Magdala called Mary, went to his tomb after the Jewish sabbath and found it empty. 

Thereafter the experience of the Resurrection becomes harder, if not impossible, to describe. Not just for us, but especially for the first witnesses to it. That’s partly why this gospel scripture is written in a way that is unlike any other, more breathless, more personal, more anecdotal and more experiential. It’s as if the insurgent Jesus movement is seeing in colour for the first time. 

If we’re looking for a miracle, incidentally, here it is. Whatever has happened, the utter defeat and dispersal of this small, provincial band of rebels in death and despair has been irreversibly transformed within three days. The two-word modern term for this phenomenon might be: Go figure. 

But we should not avert our eyes from less convenient phenomena, evidence that is not just metaphorical or allegorical but which may be downright worldly and motivated by expedience. It isn’t controversial to observe that there is a difference between the empty-tomb narratives and the apparitions (as the Roman Catholic catechism calls them) of the risen Christ, the latter in part arising from competing factions for patriarchal authority the earliest formation of Church. 

The empty tomb isn’t just evidence of the risen Christ. It’s there to show us symbolically where God is not. In John’s gospel, Mary sees cherubim sitting at the head and foot of the slab on which the body lay, echoing the mercy-seat of the ancient ark of the covenant, the empty throne of the invisible Jewish God, Yahweh. The Christ has “gone ahead” to continue the living work of God in his nascent Church of the new covenant. 

Above all (and those two words can be read literally), this dualistic approach to the Resurrection calls its observers to relax about it, to let go of our understanding of it. The words and actions of the risen Christ often seem to confirm as much: "Don't hang on to me", "Shalom" (Peace be with you), "Come and eat", "Feed my lambs". 

So, struggling to comprehend the Resurrection isn’t a deal-breaker. In a way, the divine message is that the biggest miracle of all is no big deal. Life really does go on. 

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